If All Time Is Eternally Present, All

At The Violet Hour, When The Eyes And Back Turn Upward From The Desk, When The Human Engine Waits Like A Taxi Throbbing Waiting I Tiresias, Though Blind, Throbbing Between Two Lives.

It Is A Test (a Positive Test, I Do Not Assert That It Is Always Valid Negatively), That Genuine Poetry Can Communicate Before It Is Understood.

All Time Is Eternal, Moving Inexorably Toward An End Which We Believe Is A Result Of Our Actions, But Over Which Our Control Is Mere Illusion.

All Time Is Unreedemable.

Not Fare Well, But Fare Forward